Genius Nepenthes
by Dim Aldebaran
Summary: A collection of drabbles either centering around or regarding Artemis Fowl II. Many pairings & POVs, mostly angst. Includes AH, AJ, Artler, AM, and many more. My Dante nominated for Best Drabble in the Orion Awards.
1. Nepenthe

N E P E N T H E

- Dim Aldebaran -

The Moulin Rouge, and its ruddy shadows; its dream of Lilith; its chalice of Death's own wine—

Too long a time apart, too short—? She knew not, only that the parting had been jade despair.

The first sip, she had killed a man, and had wished to die for a time.

Then, the desk job, for death was sweeter when graced by the green god.

And now: she had killed again. It had been different, somehow: perhaps it had been those cool blue eyes, so different from this peridot fever.

Staring into the Byzantine shadows, she sipped her nepenthe.

**:i:**

Written for the 'green' prompt of af100 and drabble 100. 100 words. HS & AF.

**Genius Nepenthes** is a drabble collection of Artemiscentric oneshots. People will notice that there's reposts here; I've been doing some reconstructing.

There's a healthy variety of POV, pairing and subject matter, so hopefully these will be interesting. There will be commentary on each drabble on my livejournal. Constructive criticism is much appreciated, and will be taken into account. Thanks!


	2. Dark Rainbows

D A R K

R A I N B O W S

- Dim Aldebaran -

_Red earrings. They looked like drops of fire to him, falling down in an eternal struggle to burn the ivory of her taboo shoulders. _

_He could imagine their cousins, jewel-like beneath a film of pale skin. He could see their pulse in the hollow of her throat, where her lifeblood strained to be freed. His eyes followed the sweet lines of her collarbone, tracing the path it would follow if it were to escape: highlighting the white curves of her throat with a glorious crimson—_

Darkness, all around. Tinted with green; stained with black. He blamed Dublin's budget for alleyway lighting.

Something was draining in the gutter; it smelled like gold and sounded like death.

Aurum est potestas: aurum est sanguine.

"_I love you," she murmured against his Armani suit. _

_He answered with the touch of a troubadour: "And I, you."_

_He could see the curve of her smile, suppressed by his shoulder. She drew away from him; a halo of stray hairs formed, gold against the deep purple of the night. The city had killed the stars; there was only indigo in the heavens, swirled with the primordial ebony of Kaos._

_Yellow glinted on her finger as she idly traced his jawline, like the half-lidded eye of a cat. He couldn't see the accompanying diamond, but he knew it was there. He should know, after all._

He didn't know where it had fallen. He considered scrabbling for it on his knees, like some blind madman—perhaps Phineus—but he already had plenty of DNA evidence on him. More might… incriminate him.

Pity. It had been a rather expensive ring, even for a belovèd.

_Fingerprints. He had almost forgotten. _

_There was only one place where he had left fingerprints._

_The gun was doused in a pool of orange streetlight, which was fierce like citrine crystals in the sun. It glinted a cold blue, the blue of dying on the ice, the blue of dying alone._

_He picked it up, slipping it into his pocket. It was a heavy weight against his thigh._

Second thoughts were a tingle; it felt like hair rustling against his brow, blown by a cold winter wind.

He ignored them: there was only that weight in his pocket, heavy as lead—heavy as gold.

He smiled icily. Aurum est potestas: aurum est sanguine: sanguine est potestas.

He looked back. Her silhouette was black against the rainbow-colored shadows.

Before he left, he made sure to blow a kiss. The irony was sweet on his lips.

**:i:**

418 words, AFJB.


	3. Asphodel

A S P H O D E L

- Dim Aldebaran -

All swirled in a mist of crushed pearls. He cocked his head, this way, and that, pondering relative humidity and advection and condensation nuclei.

_Dom—?_

And—there he went, into the fog, friend, father, failure, _et cetera_, into that pearly mist.

_Dom, wait—_

His mind swirled like the fog.

_Dom, I can't believe—_

They had died by the same bullet, the same vendetta, and they had passed away hand-in-hand; would they continue together past this peculiar set of Pearly Gates?

_Wait—_

He stared into the fog: and thought of life, death, why, why not—

—_please—_

—and began to forget.

**:i:**

Written for the drabble100 prompt of 'gray' and the also for the remixredux challenge; a remix of the Humble Mosquito's "God's Waiting Room". 100 words. AF & DB.


	4. Caesar

C A E S A R

- Dim Aldebaran -

I. V E N I

The place has the scent of insanity: sweat, blood, tears, all in that eloquent mixture that spoke to the soul and convinced it of its terror.

But he walks: the echoes were as empty as the rooms.

The blind watches him.

He comes to an end: perhaps it was the chair that makes him smile, directed away in vindictive defiance, or perhaps the emptiness, as if she thought her absence might excuse her.

II. V I D I

There were other prisons for her, of course.

One was her room—

—the other was his.

He finds her at the piano: it was his as well as hers, though not theirs.

Chopin was insufficient; but she had never been the refined sort, and plays with a drama subtlety do not permit.

He sees—

—and smiles.

III. V I C I

Her thoughts stray to Mozart; with his false calm and sweeping pretences on the rationality of emotion. She struggles because it is a false thing to her—she hasn't quite caught on to the adult knack of hiding emotions.

She swears under her breath rhythmically, little gratuities, here and there, like ants up the arm with a creep-crawly feeling.

At the end of the world, she turns with a terrible sort of smile, the sort a mother-in-law has at a wedding, says nothing, waiting for him to speak first as if they were in kindergarten again, raising hands, waiting in line, pass the crayons.

—but she struggles with this too, like she struggles with everything these days

And then there was only her laugh, matching that terrible smile like a flower girl and the bride.

But weddings end: this does not.

She will never stop laughing.

He walks away: the world is his.

**:i:**

291 words. AFJB.


	5. Chrysanthemum

C H R Y S A N T H E M U M

- Dim Aldebaran -

It should rain.

—_seed the clouds, climate control—_

But such things had always been his strong suit, though hers trumped his, in the end.

It was the hottest day on record.

In her hand, wilted white chrysanthemums.

It was the wrong funeral for tears; she should not cry for her brother's brother, her father's son; not her, killer of her beloved's only love.

In death, he looked the vampire he always was, having drunk Dom's soul and cast the body aside.

She let the chrysanthemums fall; ancient, now, from a previous funeral, a previous life.

She didn't like chrysanthemums, anymore.

**:i:**

Written for the af100 prompt 'intrigue' and the drabble100 prompt of 'death'. 100 words. JB & AF.


	6. The Silence and the Storm

_The_

S I L E N C E

_and the_

S T O R M

**- **Dim Aldebaran -

He was silent.

It wasn't just the silence of the shy, where one would open up word by word like the unfurling petals on a rose, where everyone would look at his marvelous inner light and feel glad that he had blossomed so beautifully, since beauty was so _pure_ in _spirit_.

He was silent.

It wasn't a literal quiet, not all the time. He had a little clique of fellow nerds that crowded round him like fangirls, and he would talk to them and they would take in every word without even noticing how he did not ever look at them. He had opinions he would voice with that crackling wit of his in Philosophy; he had a fondness for Nietzsche during Complex Analysis, read page by page as the hour stretched on by.

But he was still silent.

She had noticed this, finally. It had taken so long, so long; how long had they shared classes, how long had they gone to the same college?

He was silent.

He never spoke of personal affairs. He would go to the occasional party, 'experiment' in a matter even genii could not escape; but she was always there, watching him from beneath lidded eyes. It was always so impersonal for him, keeping the matters at armslength. He never even remembered their names.

He was silent.

But the silence wasn't perfect—he spoke but did not listen, he watched but did not care, he fucked but did not love—all were so glaringly _silent_.

He… was silent.

No one guessed. He never let anyone get past his mask—they never even guessed at its existene! He wore a mask? Pah—his mask was flawed, and masks were employed merely to put on a display of perfection. God, they were so stupid, so uncaring, so damn _absorbed_ in their self-absorption—

He was **silent**

It… it was if he had no _real _emotions. Like others'. Like hers. Or maybe, whatever it was he felt, it was beyond emotions. Transcended them. Like bloody Buddha—but that triggered those whirling tangential thoughts, for now she wondered where it was he meditated, for that would be wonderful time to confront him, _no, talk, flirt, kiss, fuck—_but it would only be the mask that would respond, that beautiful, flawed mask.

He was silent.

No words. No, just no _real _words. He had words for his little fanclub, just enough to distract them. They never looked beyond the sophisticated, superintelligent exterior since that wasn't what they needed or even wanted. They wanted the mask, in the way a baby wanted a lollipop. It was happy coincidence that the passerby had one to spare. They wanted perfection; and they received it in this new idol.

_He _was silent.

How did she know this? Was she just making this all up in her head, to have an excuse to talk to this enigma who could smile as politically as he could frown? But—_No, I wouldn't do that, he really needs me, deep inside, where he's lost and crying like a rain cloud in summer. _And then—_See, of course, you're rationalizing infatuation. _He was criminal, he was genius, and above all he was human: was he manipulating her with those empty stares and big blue eyes, was she falling for a Faust?

And, yet, the possibility… _excited_ her

He was silent through it all.

He wore it like a mirrored cloak, containing that quixotic soul that lay within so it was reflected to infinity within himself so he was greater than all else. On the outside, all people saw were themselves, mere reflections of their own Narcissist qualities. Did he scream beneath the mirror, did he cry out and hear only echoes? Ah, the mask and mirror, what a brilliant pair for fooling to world—

He was too silent:

_Maybe he's transparent_, she would muse. Nothing there: clear, crystal clear, a crystal figurine. She could see six billion people twisted and warped within him, six billion crystal statues frozen in their laughter and smiles and emptiness and happiness—and the silence was the silence of herself.

He was silent.

It was the silence of the stars, the silence of a black hole: it was something to theorize about with white coats and long lists and big budgets, something most people would muse about in traffic jams and waiting lines, something they didn't really care about much—they saw the mirror, the unearthly beauty of the surrounding stars and ignored the darkness in the heart of them all. A power that would devour the light and never let it go.

He was silent.

And no one cared but her.

s i l e n c e

Her was a black hole. An _it_!

He was silent. But any more silent than herself?

**:i:**

894 words. AFOFC.


	7. Loki and the Laugh

L O K I

_and the _

L A U G H

**:i:**

Father had the look of a god, lording over his world from his Victorian throne as his only son wove a web, just for him_, just for me_.

Father was a prey was too large to be so entrapped; so the spider sought escape, silvered words mere distraction as the jester danced away.

Father was blind, not seeing the flitting ploys: only old tricks, old heartbreaks.

He thought it was funny.

Father didn't.

Father watched the magician's hands as they performed their magic tricks, watched for mistakes, imperfections—

The jester escaped, and laughed: _Father is such a fool at times._

**:i:**

Written for the af100 'intrigue' prompt and the drabble100 'joker' prompt. 100 words. Artemiicentric.


	8. Matte

M A T T E

- Dim Aldebaran -

In her lap, the child.

"—Mama," clasping the necklace, "Mama, why do you always wear this vial?"

Eyes met solemn eyes. "Papa gave it to me a long, long time ago."

"Why?"

"When Papa had to go," she said eventually, cradling the child, "he gave it to me so I'd have something to remember him by."

"He filled it with—these?" The child touched the mother's face. "Tears?"

She embraced the child tightly. The child bore this silently. In her hands was the vial, the fathomless blue of the child's eyes.

"—then why do you hide it, Mama?"

**:i:**

ArtemisAnyone, 100 words. For the af100's prompt of 'elephant' (white elephant, here) and drabble100's prompt of 'children'.


	9. Black Pearls

B L A C K  
P E A R L S

- Dim Aldebaran -

"_Timmy, **Timmy**, save me, I'm so afraid—"_

The man tried to ignore the voice from upstairs: "...it's not much, you see, not much at all—"

Artemis steepled his fingers. "The Philippines aren't worth that kind of investment, I'm afraid."

"_Please, I didn't do anything—_"

The man opened a briefcase. Black pearls spilled forth, sable sin and nightmare. "For—for the lady of the house."

"—_They're here, They're **here**—"_

Artemis' lip curled. "Get out," he whispered.

"—_They're all around me Timmy, **please**—_"

The man left; Artemis was left with black pearls and a voice.

**:i:**

Angeline-Artemis. 100 words. For the af100 prompt 'elephant' and the drabble100 prompt 'deaf'.


	10. Improbable

I M P R O B A B L E

- Dim Aldebaran -

**:i:**

"It's impossible," she whispered, "impossible—"

He watched her with a wiser man's eyes: the curve of her brow, the cherubic pout to her lips, the soft prickle of her auburn hair, the infatuated blush to her cheeks, the warm, welcome weight in his arms.

Kiss: smooth, slick. Lips: soft, full, yielding, submitting

—but Holly was not one to submit.

Holly trusted.

Somewhere, Cupid smiled.

The moment had a haze to it: inflicted by the soft helplessness of her words, the understanding that linked them like slack on a rope, the intimacy of it all…

"No," he murmured, "merely improbable."

**:i:**

Written for the drabble100 prompt of 'beginnings'. 100 words. AH.


	11. My Dante

_my_

D A N T E

The rung burned, burned like the fires he had left behind.

—eternity in Hell was not worth his pride—

The next: like ice, like the cold, stoic demeanor he had abandoned.

—the infinite inferno was not worth his honor—

This one, smooth as silk and just as slippery.

—damnation until Apocalypse was not worth the sound of the voice—

Now warm, like polished wood, like young, firm flesh.

—to be Lucifer's courtier forevermore was not worth a lover's embrace—

The last rung: sharp, piercing, like heartbreak—

—and yet, to be at the side of Christ was not worth abandoning Artemis.

**:i:**

For the af100 prompt 'ladder' and the drabble100 prompt 'touch'. Nominated for "Best Drabble" in the Orion Awards.


	12. Antoinette

A N T O I N E T T E

- Dim Aldebaran -

Shame was for the soldier who couldn't bury the bodies but could fire the bullets. Shame was for the child who had broken his mummy's rules. Shame was for a woman who was the wrong Mary. Shame was for the priest that prayed for the end of his penance.

In short, shame did not befit a Fowl—

And yet, there was shame for all the questions left unanswered, and all the answers left unquestioned. Shame for the redundant frown and the repetitious smile. Shame for the slipknot doubt and the riptide arrogance.

—but then, shame perfectly fit the imperfect mind.

**:i:**

For the fowl100 prompt of 'shame' and the drabbles100 prompt of 'blind'.


	13. Quatrième

Q U A T R I È M E

- Dim Aldebaran -

**I.**

It should have been a shock; and though their eyes widened and wept with the simultaneous confession, declaration, and denouncement of life, they were not surprised.

They had all known it was coming, all along; and somehow, only _she_ had acted, and she had—_saved_ him.

Artemis' lips twisted. That—_child_ at his bedside with the red-rimmed eyes, that variable, that—_interference, _guided by mere _intuition_—

Of _course_.

He closed his eyes against a world of white; and against the contrived humanity of the insanity ward.

"You're welcome," Juliet whispered in reply.

She couldn't bring herself to hold his hand.

**II.**

It wasn't the literal that bothered her. That had been taken care of, with nurses and doctors and—

She closed her eyes, and opened her heart: "Artemis, _please…_"

He'd only answer her with silence; silence, that strange and empty _silence_ of the lies redundant.

She had _seen_ them, the lies, suspending the broken man within the broken mirror, woven in a shroud to veil the shattered mind, she had seen them and there was no going back, now…

Her eyes opened; his back was turned.

At times, she wondered whether it was mercy, or spite.

Regardless, she was always grateful.

**III.**

It was an unspoken condition that the door would remain open at all times.

But how she'd flit into the room! how she'd chatter and expect it all to be the same… it hurt at first, this open door, but then hurt turned into anger and he was quite alright with anger.

He kept his back turned away from it, of course.

He kept his back turned away from them all.

…but sometimes the slave to himself, chained before the open door, the very Prometheus, slipped the words: "Thank you."

It was the only confession he would allow himself, now.

**IV.**

"This doesn't change anything, you know—" She watches his hands. "_This_."

"I never said it would."

He won't stop _thinking_; she wants to reach down and touch her hands to his, but she doesn't, she _can't_… "You never say a lot of things, you know."

"I'd rather not get into this."

She folds; he doesn't notice. "Thank you, then." She smiles; he doesn't look, so he'll never see the edge to it. "Again."

—pause. "You're… welcome."

She knows he doesn't mean it anymore; but she replies in turn.

It's all she can do not to close the door behind her.

**:i:**

All for the af100 prompt of 'thanks'; individually for the drabbles100 prompts of: 'white', 'thanksgiving', 'writer's choice', and 'missing'. All are exactly 100 words, for a total of 400 words. Title translates to 'fourth'. These are posted together because the four are (obviously) linked.

Gratitude towards Gumbutt, who lent me a pencil when I needed it most; and doubly so, for giving me one with no eraser.


	14. Limelight

**L I M E L I G H T**

- Dim Aldebaran -

**:i: **

The stage is set, with its red red curtains that drip from above to a certain fate, and its black black shadows that creep from about to a certain limelight centerstage.

Centerstage?—the actor questions the Art. This is an aside, not a monologue…

…but the limelight burned into him, bleak, bright, expectant.

He looks up, and faces his audience.

He had been asked to smile:

He put the gun to his mouth and replied through the microphone: "Merry fucking Christmas."

White had never been his color; but he always dressed to impress. Everybody loves a limelit martyr in red.

**:i:**

For fowl100 and drabbles100 prompt 'christmas'.

Andrew's quote: I can't claim credit. And excuse the melodrama of this, please. I was in a Mood when I wrote this.


	15. Parallax

P A R A L L A X

- Dim Aldebaran -

**:i:**

It would be an affair to remember.

—_first the hair, cascading down in a chaos of curls_—

The memory would distort with time; but weren't the best of them always?

—_next the jewels, flashing belligerent and bright in the lustrous eve_—

Certain moments would stand forth, certain—_words_.

—_the dress, that which is not even skin deep, can't hide behind the silk anymore_—

She wouldn't forget the things they'd never say.

—_the_ _shift, leaving her barren: wilted flower of a bruised spring_—

Nor would she forgive herself for her silence.

—_exposed, she slips from one world of intrigue to another_.

**:i:**

af100 prompt of 'proportion' and 'writer's choice' of drabbles100. ArtemisMinerva.


End file.
